


Promises

by hastings



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Child Abuse, Dysfunctional Family, Familial Abuse, Minor Character Death, Neglect, Other, Parent/Child Incest, Physical Abuse, Rape/Non-con References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-16
Updated: 2012-06-26
Packaged: 2017-11-07 21:49:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 13
Words: 17,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/435817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hastings/pseuds/hastings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything Mycroft has ever done has always been for Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Mycroft remembers the exact moment he found out he was to have a younger brother. He'd been practising reading in French and had to hide the book behind a cushion when his mother burst into the room, beaming from ear to ear. It wouldn't do for his parents to see him reading in a foreign language, he'd thought, it would undoubtedly lead to awkward questions and he wasn't quite yet sure he wanted to reveal the full extent of his knowledge. People didn't like it when you were smarter than they were, he'd begun to notice. He was always unsure of his mother when she was as happy as this. It made her unpredictable, and Mycroft didn't like that. Mummy was prone to violent mood swings recently; she'd be ecstatic for months, before vanishing from the house for a few days and returning in a fit of depression and tears. Her darker moods always coincided with her returning from the doctors, Mycroft had frowned to himself upon realisation. The house staff tended to talk in hushed tones around these times, hurrying him out of the room whenever he caught them whispering, and refusing to explain his mother's absences. On more than one occasion, Mycroft had been convinced that his mother had died, but that no-one had deigned to tell him.

 

On this occasion, however, she'd scooped him off the sofa and swung him round while she laughed joyously, before hugging him tightly to her chest. Mycroft had struggled against her, mortified that he should still be treated in such a way at the age of seven, but she'd held firm.

 

“I've got such wonderful news,” she'd whispered into his ear. “You're going to have a little baby brother.” He'd watched uneasily over her shoulder as his father had slowly entered the room behind her, a tight-lipped smile on his face. She'd pulled back to smile at Mycroft, before planting a kiss on his forehead. “Aren't you excited?” She'd laughed again.

 

“How do you know it's a boy?” he'd asked suspiciously, staring at her stomach as she straightened up and danced back across the room towards his father. He could see it now, he'd thought, scolding himself for not having noticed it sooner. Her stomach was much more rounded than he'd ever seen it, her dress just beginning to pull tight over the bump. His eyes had flickered back up to her face as he repeated his question. Mummy had been rubbing a hand over her stomach and twirling herself around the room, oblivious to Father's obvious displeasure. His eyes had been boring into Mycroft's from across the room, and he'd had to look away as he asked his question a third time. She hadn't answered him.

 

He also remembers the way his father had come into his bedroom again that night, slipping between the covers next to his son. Mycroft had squeezed his eyes tightly shut, and done his best to slow down his breathing to make it look as if he were asleep. Looking back, he wasn't ever sure why he'd tried this, the tactic had never stopped his father. It had, however, given him the useful ability to fake an uncannily deep sleep, even later on in life. He still wasn't quite sure the skill had been worth it all.

 

“Don't worry,” his father had breathed in his ear, “you'll still be my special boy.” Mycroft had shuddered at the warm breath on his neck as his father grabbed his hand and slid it into his trousers. He didn't want to be his father's special boy, he'd realised then. Maybe when the baby came, he'd thought, maybe then _he'd_ stop being the special boy.

 

*

 

He closes his eyes and covers his head with the duvet whenever he thinks about that day. He all at once feels guilty for wishing his brother would not be born, and then for wishing his father would turn his attention from Mycroft to the baby.


	2. Chapter 2

The baby arrives not long after. _Premature_ , he overhears the adults say. He's not allowed in to see Mummy or the new baby, though he hears it screaming and crying long into the night. He winces at the grating noise, wondering why the baby can't just go back in for another few months, seeing as it came too early. He'll have to find some books on childbirth, he thinks to himself. His father spends a long time holed up in his study and won't see him either, not that Mycroft is particularly keen to be in his company. He wanders the house alone for next few days, with only the occasional interruption from the house staff bringing him meals. He finds that he quite enjoys the solitude; his tutors don't turn up for his lessons, assuming he'll be spending time with his newly extended family, so he has free reign over what he reads for days. No one's making him practice his piano, and he even manages to sneak a fair amount of food from the kitchen without anyone noticing. In the end he decides to forgive the baby all its squalling, if it means he gets to live like this for a while.

 

He knows it can't last forever though, and it doesn't. About a week later, Mummy surfaces for air and calls him into the bedroom. He peeks his head shyly around the door at first, he's not normally allowed in this room, and he's decided that it's wise to be more cautious now. There are bound to be many, many new rules and restrictions on his actions now that there's a small infant in the house, and he doesn't want to show himself up. She's beaming down at the newborn baby in her arms, and Mycroft's stomach twists as he observes that this is the first time he's ever seen his mother truly happy. Not overjoyed, or excited, or even just pleased, but simply happy. Contentedly so. He wonders if Mummy ever looked that happy when he was born. Somehow he doubts it.

 

There's a sudden loud noise from downstairs. He glances towards Mummy, but she's still gazing adoringly at the new baby. Mycroft takes this opportunity to slip out of the room to discover the cause of the commotion. He doesn't think she's even noticed he's left. He runs along to the bannister railings, bending down to peer between them at the scene in the hallway.

 

His father has fallen over a side-table in the hall, and is now swearing loudly at several members of the staff who are trying to help him up. He's clearly coming off a week-long drinking session; he's stumbling all over the hallway and slurring his words. He attempts to ascend the staircase, before collapsing dramatically after only a few steps. The staff call for the gardeners, and Mycroft watches silently from behind a corner as the two men carry an unconscious Father up the stairs and into one of the bedrooms in a separate wing of the house. He nods approvingly, it wouldn't be a good idea to put Father into his own bedroom right now, with the new baby. He wonders for a moment why his father thought the birth of his second child necessitated such an intense drinking session. He wonders if it has something to do with him.

 

He hears his mother's voice call for him softly, and he slips back into the room. She invites Mycroft to come up and sit on the bed beside her. The baby's stirring in Mummy's arms, and Mycroft can't help but to grab one of it's hands and look into its eyes. Mycroft feels a slight pang of jealousy; the baby's eyes are a beautiful blue-green colour. Where he's inherited his father's chubby frame and dark auburn hair, this baby is all Mummy. So thin and tiny, with a mop of curly dark hair and slanting light eyes. Mycroft and Mummy sit for a long while, staring down at this new addition to their family. After a few moments, Mummy seems to sit up straighter, and she turns her gaze on her eldest son.

 

“Mycroft, I want to tell you something very important. You're a big brother now, you need to know that it's up to you to keep him safe, if Mummy and Daddy can't. Do you promise to do that, Mycroft?” She looks at him expectantly. Mycroft can think of a hundred different reasons why it might not be possible or within his power to keep his brother safe in any number of different situations, but he doesn't want to upset Mummy, not when she's in such a happy mood.

 

“I promise,” Mycroft nods solemnly.

 

“Good,” she smiles beatifically down at him, before returning her attention to the baby. “His name is Sherlock.”

 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft repeats quietly, leaning over to drop a soft kiss onto his little brother's forehead.


	3. Chapter 3

Mycroft can hear Sherlock screaming from all the way upstairs. He stares into his wardrobe at the neat display of clothes as he tries to block out the sound. He's still trying to think of anything that will delay the forthcoming day when Sherlock finally stops making that awful noise, and Mycroft slowly shuts the door and makes his way into the hall and down the stairs. He catches sight of Mummy hugging Sherlock down in the hall as she hums and stares with glazed eyes at the wall over his head.

 

His mother's moods have become more and more unpredictable of late. Sometimes she's the Mummy he used to know, aloof and thoughtful but still sharply lucid. Most of the time, however, she wanders around the house in a dream-like state, not fully noticing everything that is going on around her. Today is one of those days.

 

Mycroft walks slowly down the stairs towards his waiting family, pausing for a moment with two feet on each step. He's got his best clothes on, the ones he wears to church, and the rarely worn fabric is uncomfortable against his skin. He's taken a growth spurt recently as well, in both directions, and his clean white shirt feels too tight against his stomach. His father is taking him out for the day. It's been planned for weeks, but Mycroft's still not sure what they're meant to be doing. His head begins to fill with a high-pitched whining whenever anyone talks about it, and he can never quite remember what they've said. He knows his father won't try anything while they're in public, but his stomach still clenches painfully at the thought of spending an entire day alone with this man.

 

He finally reaches the bottom of the stairs and crosses the hall to where his parents are standing. His father laughs and claps a hand to Mycroft's back. “Cheer up,” he says. “Anyone would think you were going to a funeral.”

 

Mycroft stretches a smile across his face, dropping it immediately the second his father turns his back. He knows that it isn't wise to be displaying his emotions so obviously, but somehow he can't find the strength to pretend today. He tongues the loose tooth on the left side of his mouth, wobbling it back and forth. It's been loose for more than a few days now, but he can't quite bring himself to pull it out yet.

 

“I want to go with Mycroft,” he hears Sherlock whine from somewhere behind him.

 

“Well, you can't,” his father replies sharply, not even glancing at his youngest son.

 

Mycroft turns around to face the stairs. Sherlock is sitting on the bottom step peering up at everyone, all massive eyes and pouting lips. There are still tear tracks down his face from his recent screaming fit. He screws up his face and asks, “Why?” Mummy sits down beside him and smiles, running her hand through his hair. “You're too young,” she tells him. “It's only for big boys.” She pulls Sherlock up to sit on her knee, and he wiggles about, trying to dislodge himself from her grasp. Mycroft stares jealously at the scene in front of him. Sherlock has commanded almost all of their mother's attention since the day he was born. Mycroft often hears her refer to him as her 'miracle baby', and he wonders where that leaves him.

 

His father's pulling on his coat now, and encouraging Mycroft to do the same. He stuff his arms through the sleeves and buttons it slowly up the front. For a single, foolish moment he thinks that maybe his father will let them stay at home if he starts to make a fuss. Then he remembers exactly who he's dealing with, and he realises that nothing would be worth the punishment he'll get if he shows his father up.

 

They drive the entire way in silence, his father resting his hand on Mycroft's thigh for the whole journey. Mycroft stares unseeingly out of his window, one white-knuckled hand gripping the door handle. He watches as fields and houses stream by his window, trying to ignore the warm pressure that his father is exerting on his leg. They drive past the church in the village, and his father parks the car once they're well into the nearest town. Mycroft doesn't move as his father gets out of the car and walks round to open the other door.

 

“Come on, then,” his father says impatiently, taking Mycroft by the shoulder and practically dragging him out of the car. “Can't hang about all day.”

 

They start to walk along the street, neither of them saying a word, when a tall man calls across from the other side of the street and waves his hand. His father raises a hand in return, and the man jogs across the road towards them. His father smiles in greeting and shakes his hand. Mycroft stands in silence as the two adults laugh and talk, apparently the stranger is a friend of his father's from his university days. His father's hand is still pressing softly into his shoulder and Mycroft wants to throw up at being touched so obviously in public.

 

“Who's this then?” The words interrupt Mycroft's thoughts, and he glances up to see the stranger smiling down a him.

 

“This is my son, Mycroft,” his father says, squeezing Mycroft's shoulder almost painfully. Mycroft nods at the stranger and gives him a strained smile. His father frowns down at him, but Mycroft can't bring himself to be more polite than that.

 

“Just the one, then?” the man says, returning his attention to Mycroft's father. His father gives a non-committal grunt, and his friend goes on to talk about how he has three daughters now, and shows them both a picture of his dark-haired offspring. Judging by the long blond hair on his suit jacket, and the receding line of fair hair on the man, either he's having an affair while his dark-haired wife waits at home, or he's not their biological father. Mycroft feels almost smug at having figured this out, before remembering where he is. The conversation slowly begins to peter out, and the man makes his excuses, saying he has to get to an appointment. He looks shifty, like he's lying, but Mycroft thinks he's telling the truth. An affair, then. He suspects that his father's friend's wife doesn't know about the affair yet, or she wouldn't take such good care of his clothes and shoes. His father nods and says goodbye to his friend, then grabs Mycroft by the shoulder, steering him away along the street.

 

“What's wrong with you?” his father demands sharply, eyes flickering round to make sure no-one can hear them.

 

Mycroft begins to drag his feet, lowering his eyes to stop his father seeing the tears shining there.

 

“I don't feel well,” he whispers miserably, “I want to go home.”

 

“Mycroft,” his father says warningly.

 

“Please,” he whimpers, sounding more like Sherlock than he is comfortable admitting, “I want to go home.”

 

His father frowns down at him for a moment before suddenly turning round to face the other way. “Fine,” he says roughly, manhandling Mycroft back along the street and shoving him back into the car. Mycroft worries at his loose tooth, longing to get home so he can hide away in his room. His relief is almost palpable, but is soon overtaken by a nervous panic as his father speeds along the roads, both hands gripping the steering wheel tightly.

 

When they get home, his father exits the car quickly and strides into the house without waiting for Mycroft. Mycroft sits in the car for a few moments, wondering what will happen if he just doesn't get out. Eventually he does, if only because he can practically _feel_ the house staff watching him from the windows of the house, and it's making him uncomfortable.

 

Mycroft slowly walks into the entrance hall, and sees his father standing by the bottom of the staircase, waiting for him. He doesn't bother taking off his jacket, simply shuffling his feet along the wooden floorboards until he's standing directly in front of his father. He looks down at his shoes the entire time, waiting for the punishment he knows will be inflicted.

 

His father smacks him squarely across the face and Mycroft feels his tooth wrench loose and fall onto his tongue. His mouth fills with blood that he doesn't dare spit out.

 

Then his father simply stares at him for a long moment, making Mycroft shift uneasily. He needs to get new shoes soon, he thinks distantly. The one's he's wearing are beginning to pinch uncomfortably when he walks. His mother hasn't taken him shopping in a long while, he realises.

 

Mycroft coughs out the blood when his father suddenly backhands him a second time, and it splatters starkly across the front of his white shirt. His father looks down at him with a disgusted expression, before striding along the hall into his study and slamming the door. Mycroft chokes out a sob which echoes around the empty hall, blood still dripping from his chin onto his shirt, before slowly beginning to climb the stairs up to his bedroom.

 

 

*

 

A few days later, on his tenth birthday, his father pushes him face-down into his mattress and fucks him. For the first time since he was a young child, Mycroft panics and tries to get away, but his father is leaning all his weight on his forearm across Mycroft's shoulder blades. He's so much heavier than Mycroft, so he gives it up as a futile endeavour, slumping boneless on the bed. He focuses instead on trying to breathe, the air coming slower and thinner till he feels like he's about to faint.

 

Mycroft refuses to get out of bed for nearly a week afterwards, before the doctor comes round to take his temperature and frown at him, telling him to grow up and stop worrying his mother. He burrows into his pillows and cries, complaining of still feeling sick when Mummy comes in to stroke his hair and kiss him goodnight. Mycroft wakes much earlier than usual the next morning, and spends a few hours staring at the ceiling, watching the morning light as it creeps through his curtain and across the walls. He hasn't seen his father once since he's been 'ill', but he knows he can't escape him forever.

 

For the first time in his life he wonders if this is normal. He wonders if everyone does these things with their parents, but people just don't talk about it. He wonders if maybe he's the only one this happens to, or if maybe he's the only one who doesn't enjoy it. The thought makes him feel strange and cold. Different. He wonders why, then, if it _is_ normal, that he's never read anything like it in any of his books. He desperately wants to ask someone about this, _anyone_ , as long as they're a proper adult. He doesn't even mind if they're not as clever as him, but as he thinks about it the knot around his heart tightens painfully and he knows he'll never tell a soul.

 

He gets out of bed then, trying to shake off the feeling that he wouldn't have minded if he'd never woken up again.


	4. Chapter 4

Mycroft has sequestered himself in the alcove just outside the drawing room door. It's an excellent spot for eavesdropping, the acoustics of the room bounce into and around the small space, making whatever's being said inside very audible to anyone standing in the right spot. The door itself is slightly ajar, he can see his parents through the crack in the door frame, and in the window's reflection.

 

He's missed the beginning of the conversation, but from what he gathers, Mummy is insisting that his father have some kind of _talk_ with him. He can tell by the way they say 'talk' that it won't be anything good.

 

“He's just a _boy_ ,” his father intones, rearranging himself on an sofa. “Plenty of time for that sort of nonsense later on.”

 

“Not for long,” his mother replies. “He's thirteen next week, he'll be off to school after the summer. You don't want him leaving unprepared, do you?”

 

“Look,” Mycroft can hear his father's voice start to raise in tone. It's a tone he recognises very well; his father's getting frustrated. “I don't know why you're so bloody obsessed about telling him - ”

 

“You're his _father_ ,” Mummy snaps back, “he's your _son_. It's your responsibility to tell him about this sort of thing.”

 

His father heaves a long suffering sigh, and Mycroft watches as his parents both pour themselves a large drink from the large cabinet.

 

“What're they talking about?” a loud voice pipes up behind him. Apparently Sherlock's still under the childish impression that if someone can't see you, they can't hear you. Mycroft, for once, doesn't blame him for holding such a ridiculous notion. His younger brother has been left alone to scream and cry one too many times to find this an illogical conclusion. He whips round, glaring furiously at Sherlock to shut up, but the door opens behind him to reveal his mother staring down at her sons. Their father is just visible behind Mummy, reclining on one of their antique sofas, his eyes narrowing at his eldest son. Mycroft's gaze falters under such scrutiny, and his focus drops to his feet.

 

“Mycroft.” His father beckons him into the drawing room with a deep voice that sends chills up Mycroft's spine. It's the voice his father uses when he's about to punish him.  
  


“What were you talking about?” Sherlock looks up at Mummy as she casts an eye over Mycroft still standing in his hiding place. She sweeps forward, taking Sherlock by the arm as she goes.

 

“Do as your father says, Mycroft,” she says without looking at him, her mouth tight. Mycroft turns towards the drawing-room as his feet mechanically move him forward. He catches a last glimpse of Mummy and Sherlock when he automatically turns to close the large oak door behind him. No use delaying the inevitable he realises, even as a panicked sweat breaks out in his palms. Maybe if he's obedient and repentant enough this time his father won't be too strict, he thinks desperately, wishing he could cry out to Mummy for help, and actually have her respond for once.

 

“Is it a big boy thing?” he hears Sherlock's high, childish voice ask, before Mummy whisks him away towards the staircase, and the drawing-room door traps Mycroft inside with a heavy thud.


	5. Chapter 5

Later that night their dinner is a tense affair. Mycroft shifts in his seat and stares red-eyed at his food, pushing it about his plate, for once in his life completely without an appetite. His father's belt is still burning on the marks across the back of his thighs. Sherlock's chattering away at a rate of knots, swinging his legs back and forth, while Mummy smiles at him indulgently. Their father looks like he's trying hard not tell Sherlock to shut up, and is making his way through copious amounts of red wine. Apparently Sherlock has taken a recent fancy to gardening.

 

“ - and they're going to plant violets in the gardens along the pathway. Then I'll - ”

 

“Oh, violets,” their mother smiles dreamily as she takes another sip of her wine, “violets are my favourite flowers, did you know that, Sherlock?”

 

“Yes, I know. I heard the staff talking about it at lunch. I think they want to cheer you up because they feel sorry for you because you can't have any more babies.”

 

Everyone in the room freezes except for Sherlock, who's still scraping his cutlery against his plate, blissfully unaware of the tension he's caused. Mummy presses her napkin to her mouth with a silent _oh_ , and she excuses herself tearfully from the room. Their father glares furiously down the table at his youngest son, before throwing his own napkin to the table and upending his chair. He slams the door as he storms out, the sound echoing round the room.

 

There's a long silence in the dining room, interrupted only by the soft ticking of the grandfather clock from the hallway. Sherlock looks in confusion from his parent's empty chairs to Mycroft, and back. Mycroft wonders if anyone would protest if he began gagging his younger brother at all future social events.

 

“Mycroft,” Sherlock finally says, his face growing redder and redder as he attempts to phrase questions he doesn't yet quite understand.

 

Mycroft decides to spare him the struggle and cuts him off, “Look, Sherlock, you can't just … _say_ things like that to people. ”

 

“Why not?” Sherlock retorts, sticking his chin out defiantly.

 

“Because it hurts their feelings, Sherlock,” Mycroft sighs, “it makes them sad.”

 

Sherlock scowls down at his plate. “I don't _care_ if they're sad. It's a stupid reason for being sad anyway, I was just saying what I heard.”

 

Mycroft sighs again and says more wearily, “I know, Sherlock.” He's recently found that trying to explain other people's emotions to his brother is something of a lost cause. But if he doesn't try, who will, he thinks Silence reigns once more in the dining room as each brother attempts to stare the other into submission. Mycroft can feel his pulse throbbing in the marks across the back of his legs. “It's called empathy, you know. You'll understand when you're older.”

 

His brother's eyes narrow in annoyance. “I'm not a _baby_ , Mycroft.”

 

“Yes, you are,” Mycroft retorts, feeling very vicious all of a sudden. “You're just a silly little baby and nobody likes you. You don't even have any friends.” His own conspicuous lack of friends is something he hopes Sherlock won't throw back in his face.

 

Sherlock's face burns a deep red, but instead of jumping to his feet in anger like Mycroft expects, his little brother slumps back into his chair with a sigh, his hands falling from the table into his lap.

 

“Why don't we have any friends, Mycroft?” Sherlock mumbles, looking down at his knees.“The people in books all have friends.”

 

“The people in books all have very different lives to us,” Mycroft explains slowly. “Everything seems much more exciting when you're reading about it happening to someone else.”

 

“Well, when I'm older I'm going to have lots of friends, and I'm going to have a much more exciting life than you.” Sherlock juts his chin out, as if daring Mycroft to disagree with him.

 

Mycroft pushes himself up and suppresses a wince as his thighs sting at the movement. “I'm sure you will, Sherlock,” he murmurs, leaving his brother sitting alone as he softly pads out of the dining room, trying to hide his limp.


	6. Chapter 6

The first time Mycroft has an erection occurs when he's thirteen years old, while he has his father's penis in his mouth. His father's hands are alternating between brushing through Mycroft's short hair, and rubbing his back. He can hear his father moaning and whispering words of encouragement overhead. He's never felt less aroused in all his life, but the edge of the mattress is pressing up against his crotch in a very pleasing manner, and he can't help but rub against it. He doesn't realise it himself until he pulls back as his father finishes, and glances down, seeing the way his pyjama bottoms are tenting. His heart clenches up in panic as he shifts about, trying to hide the evidence, but it's too late. His father looks shocked for a long moment, before he barks out a laughs and claps him on the back, congratulating him on becoming a man. Then his hand snakes into Mycroft's pyjamas and wraps around his hardened penis, and he gives his eldest son his first orgasm, making him lick his hand clean afterwards.

 

Mycroft manages to keep it together until his father leaves the room, smiling as kisses are dropped onto his forehead and lips, closing his eyes and pretending to sleep. The second the door clicks shut, however, he cannot stop the tears from leaking out from under his eyelids. He throws a forearm over his face, finding that once he's started, it's very hard to stop the flow of tears. He sobs silently like this for what feels like hours, all the while trying to choke his emotions back, knowing his eyes will be a tell-tale puffy red in the morning. A floorboard creaking near his door causes him to freeze and his breath to catch in his throat; has his father not had enough for one night?

 

“Mycroft?” His heart jumps in his chest. A bare-footed Sherlock stands in his doorway, clutching onto the front of his patterned pyjamas. His eyes blink owlishly; they look huge and wary in the reflected moonlight streaming from the crack in Mycroft's curtains. “I heard you crying.”

 

Mycroft scrubs a hand across his face and sits up in bed. “I'm not c-crying, Sherlock,” he hiccoughs. “Go back to bed.”

 

“Was Daddy shouting at you again?” Sherlock asks, not moving from his position at the door. His head is barely on a level with the doorknob, and Mycroft is reminded just how little his brother is.

 

“I don't know what you're talking about, Sherlock. Father was just saying goodnight,” he replies stiffly. “Go back to bed, it's late. You'll get in trouble.”

 

“I can hear him sometimes, through the wall, when he says goodnight to you. Is it a big boy thing?” Mycroft's heart clenches painfully as he watches Sherlock wrap his tiny arms around himself and pout. “He never comes to say goodnight to me.”

 

Mycroft's mouth twists into a grimace as his stomach churns with jealousy and resentment. “Count your blessings,” he says sourly. Sherlock frowns, his face scrunched into an expression of confusion. Mycroft is suddenly sick at the sight of him; the youth and innocence is pouring off his brother in waves, and he never wants to see his stupid, silly little face again.

 

“I'm serious, Sherlock, go back to your own room.” He huffs out a frustrated sigh, turns on his side and pulls the covers up to his head. Mycroft hears the door click shut again, but instead of silence there's a patter of feet across the floorboards and he feels a small body wriggling into his bed.

 

“Sherlock!” he snaps, more forcibly. “I told you to go away.”

 

“I don't want to go away,” Sherlock whines, “it's boring in my room, there's no-one to talk to.” He snuggles in closer to Myroft's body and tries to wrap his arms around his brother's waist.

 

“Well I don't want to talk to you,” he says rudely. Mycroft jabs against Sherlock with his elbow, perhaps more forcefully than he intends to, and there's a small cry and a soft _thump_ as his little brother hits the floor. He twists round to see Sherlock gazing up at him from the side of his bed, face full of hurt and eyes filling with tears.

 

“I'm sorry, Sherlock, no, please don't cry,” Mycroft feels his own voice cracking with tears again as he reaches down to help his brother up. “You can sleep in here if you want to, just please don't cry.” He is gripped with a sudden panic of what his father will do to him if Sherlock wakes the entire household with another screaming fit. Thankfully, Sherlock doesn't appear to be in the screaming mood, as he simply bites his lip to hold back the tears and clambers onto the bed.

 

“Did I hurt you?” Mycroft gently enquires. Sherlock sniffs and rubs at his eyes before slowly shaking his head. He burrows into his big brother's chest, leaving Mycroft with a face full of curly dark hair. He runs his hand through Sherlock's hair and rocks him gently, whispering apologies.

 

“It makes me sad when I can hear you crying,” Sherlock murmurs into his chest, “it hurts my feelings.” Mycroft's heart pangs and his eyes squeeze shut against unshed tears as he hears his own words repeated back to him. Perhaps there's hope for Sherlock yet, he thinks.

 

He kisses his brother on the forehead and wraps his arms around his tiny body. “I won't let anyone hurt you, Sherlock, I promise.” Sherlock sighs contentedly, hands fisting in the front of Mycroft's pyjamas.

 

“I promise, I promise, I promise,” he whispers into Sherlock's hair, repeating himself over and over, long after his little brother finally falls asleep.


	7. Chapter 7

He's completely unprepared for the next time it happens. It's a warm, sunny day, and Mycroft is reading in the drawing-room, watching Sherlock through the open window as he plays (or _experiments_ as Sherlock had huffed when Mycroft dared use the word ) in the flowerbeds. He has one eye on the book and the other on his brother when he hears his father call out his name. He freezes, the words on the page burning into his mind. It's a spy novel, one of his favourites, but the more he stares at the words the more they become jumbled and meaningless. Perhaps if he pretends he can't hear -

 

“Mycroft!” His father stands in the doorway, frowning over at his son. “You come when I call you, do you understand me?”

 

Mycroft mutters an apology and slowly marks his page, placing his book gently onto the sofa. He stands up, and quickly rifles through his memories of the previous few days, trying to figure out what he's done that might be worthy of punishment, as his father places a hand on his shoulder, steering him along the hallway and into the gloom of his study. Mycroft suppresses a shudder, trying not to throw the hand off. Not a punishment then, he thinks, a feeling of dread beginning to form in his stomach.

 

His father's visits have always taken place under the cover of dark and the privacy of Mycroft's bedroom. This is far more reckless and open. Mycroft wonders if maybe his father is _trying_ to get caught, trying to embarrass and shame his son. He knows full well that the staff are all too far in his father's thrall to ever try to stop him. When he turns around, his stomach twists sharply as he realises he can see Sherlock's reflection in the mirror facing the window over his father's desk. He's still kneeling in the dirt, digging something out of the ground and holding it up to the light, but he's too far away for Mycroft to see exactly what he's got in his hands. He jerks his head away and stares down at the desk.

 

There's a long period of quiet, and Mycroft begins to hope that he's misread the situation, though he knows he hasn't. His father's presence looms up behind Mycroft, and he rests his hand on Myroft's shoulder again and rubs. “You're getting so old,” he says quietly, “I'm going to miss you when you leave for school, you know.” Mycroft feels his hand rubbing lower and lower down his back, and he chokes back the bile that rises in his throat. He focuses his attention on the mirror hanging over his father's desk, desperately wishing he was outside with Sherlock.

 

His father pushes his upper body down onto the desk and shoves Mycroft's trousers down in one quick motion. He breathes out harshly against the wood pressed beneath his cheek, listening as his father undoes his own belt with one hand, the other still pressing into Mycroft's back. His father pushes clumsily inside him, and Mycroft's forehead scrapes against the desk as he bites his lip to keep from shouting in pain.

 

He wonders what will happen if he cries out. Would Sherlock turn to look up at the study window, raising a dirt caked hand against the sun? Would one of the staff hear him and come bursting into the room?

 

His father gives a particularly hard thrust and Mycroft screws up his eyes at the pain. He doesn't cry out. He starts counting to ten in different languages in his head, wincing every time his father squeezes his shoulder, making him lose his place.

 

A few minutes later, his father grunts overheard and collapses down onto Mycroft's back, pinning him momentarily to the desk. Mycroft holds his breath, then whimpers as he feels his father pull out roughly. He stays frozen in place, hearing his father do up his belt, until he feels a trickle of blood run down his leg, and he quickly bends down to pull up his trousers.

 

“What do you say?” His father has moved around to the front of the desk, sitting down and placing both hands outstretched on the wooded surface.

 

“Thank you, Father,” Mycroft mumbles, trying to fasten his trousers with trembling hands. His father nods courteously, before reaching into a drawer and pouring himself a drink. He shouldn't always drink the same drink, Mycroft thinks, remembering his spy novel. It makes him too predictable, there's too much of a chance his preference could be noticed and poisoned, or used against him. He watches as his father knocks back the glass, before running a hand through his thinning hair. His father's hair is exactly the same shade and texture as Mycroft's, and he feels a impulsive need to cut his off immediately.

 

He is seized with a sudden daring, borne out of his desire to gain some kind of control in the situation. He stands where he is, completely still, staring across the desk at his father. 

 

“I'm going to school soon,” Mycroft says, his eyes following his father's hand movements as he refills his glass.

 

“I know,” his father says slowly, eyeing him over the top of his drink.

 

“They won't allow visitors,” Mycroft says, his heart feeling like it's about to thump out of his chest. “Not at night, anyway.”

 

A tense silence stretches out between them, broken only by the tinkling of his father's glass as he slowly sets it down on the desk, and Mycroft suddenly wants to scream, thinking he's pushed his luck too far. He'll probably still be being punished by the time he's meant to leave for school.

 

“Get out,” his father instead says quietly, eyes dropping to the desk in front of him. Mycroft doesn't question it, striding quickly out of the room, looking far more confident than he feels.

 

*

 

After that his father comes to his bedroom but once more in the following weeks, leaving after a brisk hand job and a terse 'goodnight'. From then on Mycroft's father begins to grow colder towards him, subtly ignoring him and casting disappointed glances in his direction from time to time. Even his punishments become few and further between, and when they are administered, they're usually in the form of verbal admonishment rather than corporal. Mycroft is relieved, but tense, not knowing how long this stand-off will last. He begins to relax after two full months of this hostility; apparently his father's tastes do not run to those past the first stages of puberty.

 

His father, however, who's always done his best to ignore the fact that he has a younger son, begins to pay more attention to Sherlock. Mycroft observes him as he begins to talk and laugh with Sherlock, winking at him during dinner and inviting him to sit on his lap whenever they're in the same room.

 

Mycroft decides it's gone far enough when he catches the two of them in the kitchen one day, his father on one knee, grinning into Sherlock's face as he tells him that it'll be their little secret and not to tell Mummy. Sherlock's face is smeared with newly acquired chocolate, as he basks in the attention he so rarely receives from his beloved daddy. Their father swipes some chocolate from his son's cheek, and Sherlock leans forward to lick it off his finger and giggles. A horrible sense of foreboding forms in Mycroft's chest, as he stumbles away and into the nearest bathroom, emptying his stomach's contents over the toilet.

 

That night he tosses and turns, his door wide open, his ears straining for any sounds of Sherlock's door being opened, or the creak of a floorboard in the children's wing of the house. His father gives him a swift clip round the ear when he nearly falls asleep at breakfast the next morning, but he thinks that he'll never sleep again if it means he can protect Sherlock.


	8. Chapter 8

His decision is made by the next day. He begs off church, claiming a headache, as Sherlock's nanny takes his temperature and scowls down at him. His mother comes in to smooth his hair back just before they leave, and Sherlock pouts at the thought of leaving Mycroft behind, only if for an hour or two. He waits until ten minutes after he hears the heavy front door thud closed before he springs out of bed.

 

He steals quietly along the corridors and into Mummy's room, closing the door behind him with a soft click. He strides across the room and opens his mother's medicine drawer. Row after row of pill bottles stare up at him, some empty, some recently refilled. He sorts through them quietly, reading the labels on each one carefully before finding the one he needs. He glances back around the room, and takes a quick moment to wonder why none of his father's things are in here, before closing the drawer and slipping quietly from the room.

 

Back in his bedroom, he shuts the door and pushes his armoire up against it, trying not to scrape it too loudly across the floor. It wouldn't do to be disturbed now. He uncaps the bottle and spreads the the little white tablets out onto his desk, making sure that none of them roll away. He takes the heaviest hardback book he has and presses it down on top of them, crushing the tablets over and over into a fine powder.

 

Once the pills are crushed enough to resemble a large pile of sugar, he scoops the powder neatly back into the container. He's careful to wipe all the residue from his book, and to secrete the bottle away at the back of his chest of drawers, before climbing back into his bed to await his family's return.

 

*

 

That night he waits until long after everyone else has gone to bed, counting on his father's habit of drinking late into the night for his plan to work.

 

He opens the window in his room, then slips silently down the stairs, still dressed in his day clothes, and stands by the open door to his father's study. His father doesn't notice him at first, continuing to stare moodily out the window across from his desk.

 

“Father,” Mycroft says stiffly, still hovering by the door frame.

 

His father looks up at him in surprise for a moment, before waving him inside. “Mycroft,” he says. “It's very late for you to be out of bed.”

 

“There's a bird in my room,” Mycroft says, shifting from foot to foot, wishing he had something to do with his hands.

 

“A bird?” his father repeats, frowning slightly and squinting at his son. He's half drunk already, Mycroft can tell. “Why didn't you tell one of the staff? It'll be your own fault for leaving your window open.”

 

“I'm sorry,” Mycroft sticks his bottom lip out and tries to look as young as possible. “Can you get it out for me?”

 

His father regards him suspiciously for a long moment before scowling and rising to his feet. “Fine,” he says, and shoves Mycroft roughly into one of the chairs facing his desk. “Wait here.” Mycroft sits calmly, fingering the bottle in his trouser pocket.

 

“You're too old for this kind of nonsense,” his father mutters, practically stumbling from the room.

 

The second he hears his father's foot on the bottom stair, Mycroft jumps into action. He pulls out the bottle of crushed tablets and quickly shakes it into his father's half-empty glass. He panics for a moment when it doesn't seem like all the powder is dissolving. He can see a thin layer forming at the bottom of the glass, so he hastily pours in a little more whisky. His hands are trembling slightly, and there's a light dusting of powder around the glass. He wipes it away, rubbing his hands on the inside of his jumper to remove the residue.

 

Mycroft sits back in his chair and waits for his father's return, tapping his fingers nervously against his legs in a steady rhythm.

 

A few minutes later he hears the stairs creak as his father thuds his way back down towards the study.

 

“Bird! There was no bloody bird at all. Do you think this is funny, having me running all over the house?” His father slams the door as he re-enters the room, glaring across at Mycroft.

 

“I'm sorry. It must have flown back out the window,” Mycroft looks down at his feet, trying to disguise the way his heart is thumping painfully in his chest. He glances at the ceiling, worried that the noise of the slamming door might cause someone to come and investigate.

 

“Idiot child.” His father reaches for his glass and swallows the rest of the drink back in one smooth motion. Mycroft's breath catches in his throat.

 

“I'm sorry,” Mycroft says again, fleeing from the room before his father can protest.

 

For the next half an hour, Mycroft lingers in the hallway outside his father's study, leaning against the wall, listening as the silence is occasionally broken by the sound of liquid being poured into a glass. He's praying that no-one walks past when he hears a tinkle of broken glass as his father's drink slips through his weakened hand and smashes on the floor. He straightens up and turns back into the room, closing the door and locking it behind him, slipping the key into his pocket.

 

His father has both hands on the armrests of his chair, and he's struggling to push himself upwards, confusion etched across his face. He notices Mycroft entering the room, and collapses back into his seat, words slurring out of his mouth. He stretches out a hand to his son, but Mycroft moves to stand in front of the desk, and stares coldly down at him.

 

His father looks down at his glass, before his eyes widen and flicker up to focus on his son. He lurches to his feet, his eyes bulging. Mycroft simply stares back at him, never breaking eye contact; the sense of power is heady, almost overwhelming. His father opens his mouth to call for help, but before he can get more than a few syllables out, Mycroft is before him, pushing his weakened father back into his chair and clamping a hand over his mouth.

 

His father struggles for a while, eyes getting heavier and heavier before his limps go limp and he slumps forward in his chair. Mycroft slowly removes his hand, his knuckles are white from the pressure he was exerting on his father's face.

 

He looks down at his father's body for what feels like an age. He has expected to feel a sense of triumph and maybe some regret, but instead his insides feel like they've been carved from stone. He stops for a moment, honestly wondering if he'll ever feel anything ever again.

 

He rinses out the pill bottle with the remaining dregs of whisky, before throwing the now cloudy liquid out of the window, and leaving the empty bottle on the desk, a few inches from his father's outstretched hand. He's suddenly struck by what could happen if he is caught. There is no way he could claim self-defence, this is, and looks, entirely premeditated, only something a cold-blooded killer could have conjured up. He only hopes his age and his forthcoming performance of a grieving son will save him from any suspicion, should foul play be suspected. Mycroft take the key out of his pocket, wiping it of his fingerprints, then presses it against his father's fingertips and inserts it back into the lock. Mycroft calmly surveys the rooms one last time, before opening the window and clambering up onto the windowsill. He lowers himself gently onto the flowerbeds below and reaches back up to the window, pushing it in a certain way so that the latch inside is knocked and clicks back into place.

 

Mycroft rubs his sweaty hands against his trouser legs, staring round the moonlit garden. He knows there isn't anybody about, but he feels like any moment now his father will clamp a hand down on his shoulder and punish him for being out this late. He creeps back round to the front door, quietly unlocking and pushing it open using the key he'd stolen from the staff years ago. He knocks the mud from his shoes and places them neatly by the door, before disregarding his distaste for physical exertion and sprinting silently up the stairs and along to his bedroom.

 

The next morning Sherlock is too busy crying about the fact that one of his plants has seemingly been crushed and flattened to notice the commotion in the rest of the household. Their father hasn't been seen since the day before, and the door to his study is locked from the inside. Sherlock insists loudly and tearfully to anyone who will listen that someone's stepped on his plant on purpose, but the staff hush him and whisk him away to a quieter part of the house.

 

His father won't answer to the knocks and calls of the staff, and the gardeners are called in to break down the heavy wooden door. He and Mummy stand back, watching nervously, Mycroft schooling his face into the perfect mask of childlike worry. The gardeners finally manage to kick through the lock and it splinters and fall away, the door swinging inwards. Everyone surges forwards into the room at the same time, and several of the female members of staff scream.

 

There's a lingering smell of vomit in the room and Mycroft panics for a moment that his father might still be alive. But then he sees the corpse, its face and hands bloated and blue, and relief floods his body. One of the staff sees the pill bottle and grabs it away, stuffing it into her pocket. Mycroft's counting on the shame of a suicide to overshadow any doubts people might have about the way his father died.

 

He expects his mother to start crying, or to gasp in horror, or even to fall to the floor in a dead faint. He expects her to do _something_ , not just glance at the body and the empty pill bottle, and start to slowly wander away, humming quietly to herself. He realises then that his mother is all but gone. There's nothing left of the woman he used to know. 

 

*****

 

At the funeral, Mycroft stands stiffly in a new suit, his mother at his side. Sherlock holds onto the fabric of her dress, hiding slightly as so many people he doesn't know walk by. Everyone stops to shake Mycroft's hand or clap him on the back, offering sympathies and telling him what a brave young man he is, shaking their heads that a heart attack could take someone so young.

 

Many of his father's friends and acquaintances are entirely surprised to learn of the existence of his second son. Most assume he's a younger relative or nephew until Sherlock corrects them, frowning at their ignorance. Mycroft can see the confusion start to build in his brother's eyes as mourner after mourner reacts with disbelief upon learning he is the son of the dead man. Everyone speaks fondly of Mycroft, however, and how proud his father had been of him and how often he had spoken of him. Sherlock's eyes turn accusingly to Mycroft, and he can practically see the gears grinding away inside his younger brother's head and different thoughts clicking into place.

 

The way Sherlock stares at him during the funeral, the way his eyes bore into the side of Mycroft's head, _he knows_ , Mycroft thinks desperately, before disabusing himself of this ridiculous notion. He can't know, he's only six, there's no way he could have figured this out. And yet Sherlock keeps staring, knowing there's something Mycroft's not telling him, causing a panicked shiver to run up Mycroft's spine. His face is a smooth mask, he's fighting hard to keep it clear of any revealing emotions. He knows that Sherlock can't know, there's no way he could possibly know, but Mycroft realises that if anyone could figure it out, it's his younger brother. The thought leaves him cold with worry and apprehension as he averts his gaze from Sherlock's. It's a long time before he can look his little brother in the eye again.


	9. Chapter 9

Mycroft leaves for school in less than a week, and Sherlock has only spoken to him once since the funeral. He'd confronted Mycroft the day after, asking him what was going on, what he was hiding, and if everything was all his fault. Mycroft hadn't known how to answer him.

 

He's cataloguing all his books when Sherlock finally talks to him again. Mycroft doesn't notice him at first, but when he turns round, his little brother is standing in his doorway, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Mycroft drops his gaze and prepares to tell Sherlock to go away.

 

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asks, his childish voice high and confused.  
  


“I'm packing for school, Sherlock,” he says, “you know I'm going away next week.”

 

“I know,” Sherlock pouts. “But I thought you might want to stay here for a while. After Daddy had his,” he pauses for a long moment before continuing, “heart attack.”

 

Mycroft's blood freezes in his veins. What is it Sherlock suspects about their father's death? He suddenly wants to get his brother as far away from him as possible.

 

“Go away, Sherlock,” he snaps, “I'm busy.”

 

Sherlock rushes forwards suddenly, throwing his hands around Mycroft's waist. “I don't want you to go,” he whines, “It will just be me and Mummy left, and she's so boring, she just sleeps all the time.”

 

Mycroft stands completely still, his arms hanging loosely by his sides as his little brother holds him tightly. He doesn't want to give Sherlock the impression that he agrees with what he's saying.

 

“Please don't go,” Sherlock whimpers, clutching onto the fabric of Mycroft's jumper.

 

“I have to go,” Mycroft says roughly, pushing his brother away. “I _want_ to go. I don't want to stay in this stupid house any longer than I have to.”

 

Sherlock blinks up at him, hurt at this sudden rejection. “Can I come to school, then? Please, I promise I'll be good, I won't tell anybody they're stupid - ”

 

“No. You're too young. Go away, Sherlock, I don't want to talk to you.” Mycroft pulls a book off the shelf just to have something to do with his hands, and starts flicking through the pages without seeing them.

 

Sherlock crumples before him, and his little brother's lip starts wobbling. “Are we not friends any more?” he asks, staring up at Mycroft with confusion in his eyes.

 

He continues to stand in silence, looking across the room at his little brother, and he watches Sherlock's face harden as he apparently takes Mycroft's silence as an affirmation.

 

Sherlock slams the door on his way out, and Mycroft doesn't know whether to feel relieved or disappointed at the fact that he won't have to talk to his little brother again for a very long time.

 


	10. Chapter 10

Mycroft is sixteen and home for Christmas when, in a fit of grief and pill-induced nostalgia, his mother orders a portrait to be made of her late husband. It arrives a couple of weeks later and is hung at the top of the stairs, looming larger than life over anybody standing in the main hall. Mycroft finds he can't look at it at first, his eyes boring into the carpet every time he passes it. Sherlock confronts him a few days after it first arrives and demands to know why Mycroft is scared of it. He stops and forces himself to look at the painting. He hasn't even so much as looked at a photo of his father in nearly three years, and to suddenly be confronted with his likeness is chilling. He notices with extreme distaste how much he has grown to look like his father in the intervening years, and he once again feels a pang of jealousy that Sherlock has inherited all their mother's looks. His father's eyes stare mercilessly down at him, and a sweat breaks out on the back of his neck even as he calmly says, “See, Sherlock, I'm not.” Sherlock narrows his eyes at Mycroft as he tries to deduce his state of mind.

 

“You're a big fat liar,” he states, eyes still roaming over Mycroft's face. “Every time you're near it you won't look at it. Every time someone mentions his name you clench up. No one else sees it, but I do.”

 

“Don't be so ridiculous, Sherlock,” Mycroft says coldly. “Haven't you got some little, ah,” he sneers, “ _experiment_ to be getting on with?” He sweeps away past a furious Sherlock, even as he thinks that his little brother has turned out to be far too clever for his own good.

 

*

 

Two years later, university beckons, and Mycroft has never been so glad as when he leaves the house for the last time. His mother hangs on his arm and sobs as he struggles out their front door. He ought to be glad, he thinks. This is the most attention either son has received from their mother in years. She alternates between confining herself in her bedroom, sleeping and crying, and drifting about the house, rarely saying more than a few words to anyone. Mycroft dreads to think how neglected his brother must have been while he's away during term time, all alone in the big house with no-one for company but the people his mother employs.

 

Sherlock is standing somewhere behind her, lurking in the shadows of their entrance porch. He is gripped with a sudden urge to seize his brother and hug him tight, but he simply reaches out to clap him on the shoulder before shaking his hand solemnly. Mycroft nods his head politely at the staff, who are lined up by one of the windows, tactfully averting their eyes from his weeping mother. After a couple of minutes he manages to disentangle himself from the clutches of his mother and makes his way towards the waiting car. He climbs inside and stares back out of the window as he is driven down the long driveway. He watches as Sherlock stands and looks at the retreating car, before quickly turning into the house and disappearing from his view. Mycroft's heart sinks a little as he twists round to focus on the back of the driver's head, turning his back on his house and his little brother.


	11. Chapter 11

When Mycroft returns home to visit for the first time after four years at university, a tall youth meets him outside their front door before pushing him down into the flowerbeds. He immediately wonders who this teenager is, before being plagued with a sense of guilt for all the times he meant to visit, but called to excuse himself instead.

 

“Fuck off, Mycroft,” Sherlock spits down at his older brother. He's so much taller than Mycroft ever remembers, all gangly limbs and hunched shoulders. His hair has gone too long without a cut, and the dark curls fall into his eyes as he stares down at Mycroft. Mycroft pushes himself slowly to his feet, brushing the dirt and dust off of his previously immaculate suit.

 

“I see your manners have improved none since we last met,” he says stiffly, sweeping past Sherlock and into the house. He can practically _hear_ Sherlock's answering scowl. He clenches his jaw, resisting the urge to turn and grab his brother by the shoulders to stare down into his face, drinking in everything he sees there.

 

The house is almost exactly as he remembers it, dark and gloomy as ever. He stands in the middle of the hall, taking in all the minor details of change; a new vase standing in the corner, a sideboard moved a few inches to the right. The large portrait of his father is still hanging over the stairs, and his gaze lingers on it for a few seconds before flickering away.

 

“Miss him, do you?” a sour voice behind him says. Sherlock slams the front door shut behind them, before pushing past, knocking his shoulder into Mycroft's as he goes.

 

Mycroft ignores his question, although a shiver runs down his spine as he tried to decipher whether or not Sherlock has figured it out. “Having a good time at school, are we?” he counters, making his voice smug and knowing. Mummy had called him in a fit of tears a few weeks previously, devastated as Sherlock had been expelled and sent home from school in disgrace. One too many fights with one too many sons of prominent fathers. He suspects that he will have to commence with an incredible amount of string pulling should Sherlock ever wish to attend University.

 

He'd wondered in the car over what reaction he would receive after such a long absence. He knows it's entirely silly and hopeful, but he'd almost imagined he'd be greeted by the same, small and smiling boy he remembers from his childhood. He has no idea how to talk to this new person, and what about.

 

“Is Mummy home?” Mycroft asks, settling on the one topic he knows they have in common.

 

“Don't be stupid, Mycroft, of course she is.” 

 

“I was only asking,” Mycroft says. Polite social interaction was obviously another aspect of the world that Sherlock deemed irrelevant.

 

“Well don't, it makes you look stupid. You know she hasn't left the house in years,” Sherlock retorts.

 

“Where is she then?” says Mycroft, watching as Sherlock strolls into the drawing-room.

 

“Sleeping,” Sherlock calls over his shoulder. Mycroft follows almost automatically, desperate to see how his little brother is faring after so long an absence.

 

“How is she doing?” Mycroft pushes, his brother's reluctance to share the details is beginning to annoy him.

 

“She's doing _excellently_ , Mycroft. It only took her four days to realise I'd returned home this time.” Sherlock rolls his eyes and flops down onto the sofa. Mycroft thinks he almost looks surprised when his feet don't fit on the end, doubtless he's still getting used to his newly acquired height.

 

Mycroft stands looking around the room, noticing that not much has changed, and that the staff seem to have kept this room at least relatively clean and tidy, when Sherlock's voice cuts through his thoughts.

 

“I see they've been feeding you well. How many times have you had to get your clothes resized? Three? No, you went to the tailors last week for the fourth time, didn't you? And of course that's only this set. Who knows how many suits you burst out of before getting to this size?” Sherlock looks pointedly at Mycroft's midriff and raises an eyebrow. Mycroft regards him calmly, purposefully not rising to the bait. He didn't come home after all this time to fight with his brother. Sherlock's eyes continue to roveover his body, no doubt deducing everything Mycroft's been up to in the last few days.

 

“You haven't had any sex though, at least, not recently. It's no wonder no-one wants to sleep with you when you're that fat,” Sherlock continues, his lip beginning to curl in disgust.

 

Mycroft flinches almost imperceptibly, but of course his brother catches it. Sherlock's grin widens evilly.

 

“Hit a sore spot, have I?” Sherlock says, smirking across the room at Mycroft.

 

Mycroft tries to ignore the high-pitched whining sound that's started up in his brain, and surreptitiously takes a deep breath. His reluctance to engage in sexual activity had not gone unnoticed by his university peers. After a few months of seeing him turn down any proposition, most women assumed he was gay and most men assumed he was straight. He hadn't bother to correct any of them, preferring instead to quietly excuse himself from the room whenever the topic of one's sexual experiences was raised.

 

Mycroft finally manages to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth and says, “You're one to talk. I see the young gentleman you were trying to impress at school didn't return your affections.” It's a low blow, he knows, but Mycroft isn't feeling particularly kind or brotherly at the moment.

 

Sherlock cheeks go slightly pink as he scowls across the room at Mycroft. “How - ”

 

“As you're so fond of saying, Sherlock, I'd have to be stupid not to figure it out. _Three_ of the fights you had were the result of an inappropriate comment you made to another pupil. Not to mention, you had apparently taken to following him around like a lost puppy. Your school has been _very_ forthcoming in its reports,” Mycroft says, with a smug expression, knowing it will simply rile his brother up more. He hasn't felt this vindictive in a long time, though he leaves out the fact that he knows that someone had scribbled the word 'queer' over most of Sherlock's belongings at school. He only wants to annoy his brother, not embarrass him into complete alienation. 

 

Sherlock's eyes turn away from Mycroft, and he stares red-faced up at the ceiling.

 

“What's wrong? Not used to being in the same room as someone smarter than you?” Mycroft says, walking round the room to stand directly behind the sofa Sherlock's lying on. He looks down at his little brother, amazed at the difference a few short years can make to a person.

 

Sherlock's scowl deepens as he continues to stare upwards. “Why are you here, anyway?” he blurts out suddenly. “I'd thought you were long gone.”

 

Mycroft eyes him speculatively, wondering whether Sherlock's asking sincerely or just using this as another opportunity to needle his brother. “I came back to see my family. You and Mummy,” Mycroft replies stiffly, tapping his fingers against the back of the sofa.

 

“You don't _care_ about me and Mummy. You don't care about anyone but yourself.” Sherlock pushes himself up off the sofa, striding quickly towards the door “Go home, Mycroft. Nobody wants you here.” He turns off the light and slams the door on his way out, plunging the room into darkness. Mycroft takes a moment to marvel at Sherlock's continuing childishness before crossing over to the closed door, resting his hand on the knob. Sherlock's right, he realises. He hates this house. Nobody wants him here, and he sure as hell doesn't want to be here.

 

As he shuts the heavy front door of their house for the final time and makes his way down the driveway, trying not to think about the relief coursing through him from not having to face their mother, he doesn't notice Sherlock standing by a window on the top floor, watching him leave.


	12. Chapter 12

The peaceful silence of his office is broken by the vibrating of his phone against the wood of his desk. He picks up the phone and opens the message, already knowing who it's from.

 

_Urgent. 221b now. SH_

 

Mycroft sighs as he quickly taps out a reply. He will never understand Sherlock's preference for texting over calling, they'd already have finished their conversation if he'd simply phoned.

 

_Now? I don't exist simply to cater to your whims, Sherlock, I'm very busy. M_

 

He returns to proof-reading the documents spread out over his desk, before picking up his phone as it buzzes again.

 

_Now. SH_

 

Mycroft heaves another long-suffering sigh, finishing off the papers in front of him before bundling them neatly into a folder. He walks across his office, picking up his coat as he goes. He meets Anthea just outside his office door and she hands him his umbrella.

 

“Get these to Cameron before two o'clock, will you?” Mycroft says, holding the folder outstretched.

 

Anthea nods, taking the folder from him and typing into her Blackberry. “Your car is waiting outside, sir,” she says, “I'll have these signed by the time time you return.”

 

“Thank you,” Mycroft nods gratefully, shrugging his arms through the sleeves of his jacket. Once he exits the building he slides gracefully into the waiting car, leaning his umbrella against the seat. He grabs the handle again after a few moments so as to have something to do with his hands.

 

He greets Mrs. Hudson at the front door of Sherlock's flat, glancing towards the ceiling as he engages in the usual pleasantries. He can hear Sherlock moving about in the kitchen as he begins to climb the stairs. Mycroft doesn't say anything as he steps through the door to his brother's living room, raising an eyebrow at the mess within. Sherlock steps out of the kitchen and stands next to the fireplace, staring at Mycroft like it's the first time he's seen him in years. Mycroft frowns slightly, apprehensive about what it is Sherlock needs.

 

“How much do you remember of our father?” Sherlock asks plainly.

 

Mycroft's heart freezes in his chest, taken completely by surprise. He'd half expected Sherlock's urgent situation to be something incredibly underwhelming, like needing help to clean his kettle.

 

“Quite a bit. More than you do, I'd imagine,” Mycroft replies evenly, disguising the panic in his voice with exasperation.

 

“You always got on well with him, didn't you?” Sherlock's eyes slide away from Mycroft's and focus on the wall behind him. Mycroft raises an eyebrow and nearly laughs. He decides against asking Sherlock to clarify the meaning of 'well'.

 

“Sherlock, what's this in aid of? I have rather a lot to do today.” Mycroft taps the tip of his umbrella against his shoe, putting on an air of impatience.

 

“He was always shouting at you, though, I remember that,” Sherlock continues as if he hasn't even heard his brother.

 

“Sherlock, really. What's brought this sudden interest on?” Mycroft says sharply, bringing Sherlock's attention back to his face.

 

“We had a case. It got me thinking,” Sherlock says, tapping his finger against his mouth.

 

“A case,” Mycroft echoes, trying to remember the details of his brother's latest escapades. Something about inheritance tax, he recalls vaguely. Mycroft had had to extricate Sherlock from the clutches of the Met a few days after he was caught breaking into a house in Kensington.

 

“Do you know how it was he died? Father, I mean.” Sherlock's voice cuts across his thoughts.

 

“Heart attack,” Mycroft replies stiffly.

 

“Heart attack,” Sherlock repeats quietly, staring at Mycroft. “And you're quite sure about that?”

 

“Yes,” Mycroft says, clamping down on the panic in his chest. He doesn't know, he _can't_ know, he thinks desperately, he has absolutely no evidence. It was so many years ago, practically forgotten by the rest of the world, there is no way Sherlock could know, know that Mycroft thinks of that day almost constantly, that he still has nightmares where he wakes shaking and sweating, thinking he can hear the creak of a foot on a floorboard outside his bedroom door.

 

“Heart attack,” Sherlock says again. “Not suicide, then.”

 

Mycroft can hear the accusation and anger in his brother's voice, but he feels a small rush of relief at the direction the conversation has taken. He sighs heavily and looks down at his feet.

 

“You have to understand, Sherlock, you were very young at the time. Mummy and I thought it best - ”

 

“ _Mummy_ thought it best? Oh, please, this was all you and your ridiculous need to control everyone and everything around you.” Sherlock waves his hand dismissively in Mycroft's direction then stuffs it back into the pocket of his trousers. “So,” he continues, turning around to face Mycroft. “Definitely a suicide then?” he says. Mycroft doesn't answer him, thinking that Sherlock seems to be taking the news very well for someone who's just been told their father's death was a suicide, and the two brothers simply look at each other for a long moment.

 

“If that's all, Sherlock,” Mycroft says eventually, sweeping out of the room, stopping at the top of the stairs when he hears Sherlock's voice calling out to him sharply.

 

“Anything else to tell me? Anything else you conveniently left out?”

 

Mycroft pauses for a long moment before continuing down the stairs and into the waiting vehicle, his heart pounding in his chest. Did Sherlock know? Did he suspect? He needs to get rid of any lingering evidence from the time of his father's death, he thinks, namely the coroner's report that pronounced him dead of a heart attack. He's seen Sherlock deduce a killer from much less before, and Mycroft knows that there's probably all kinds of previously overlooked evidence in the report that will scream 'murder' to his brother.

 

He grips the handle of umbrella tightly all the way back to his office, wondering if Sherlock's hostile manner was because his father's 'suicide' was kept from him all these years, or because he suspects something more.

 

“The documents are signed and on your desk, sir,” Anthea says in greeting as he steps from the stairs onto his floor. He nods silently, then motions with his head for her to follow him into his office, and she walks in after him, watching as he sits himself behind his desk and rubs a hand over his mouth. He tells her what he needs and she nods her head.

 

“I'll have it dealt with right away,” she says, instantly beginning to tap away at her Blackberry.

 

“No,” he says simply. “This is something I should like to deal with personally.”

 

Anthea looks up at him in a rare and brief moment of surprise, before nodding and redirecting her gaze to her phone. “I'll have the details sent through immediately, sir.”

  
“Thank you, Anthea.” She walks quickly out of the room, shutting the door with a quiet s _nick_ behind her. Mycroft stares out his window at his view of the Thames, fingers worrying at the seam of his chair. It's a hateful view; he's never been able to stand the river running through the heart of London, unlike his brother who seems to have a certain affinity for jumping into it after criminals every now and then. He continues to stare down at the dirty, unpredictable waters, before his phone makes a small noise to alert him to a new email. He brings it up on his screen and dials the number there.

 

There's a short ring before a woman's voice answers, efficient and brisk. Good. Anthea's put him straight through to their head office. He leans forward and lines up his pen with the edge of his blotter.

 

“Good afternoon,” he says smoothly, eyes glancing at his watch. Better cut straight to it, he thinks. “I would like to request that the public records of my father's death be destroyed,” he says, his tone telling her that what he 'would like' has very little to do with the situation; this is something that _will_ happen. She makes a small noise of protest, before he tells her his government clearance level and she quietens immediately, then asks for the details. He tells her the name and date of death, relief beginning to course through him.

 

“Of course, sir, just one moment please.”

 

A thought occurs to him suddenly, and he quashes the panic before it rises too far in his chest. “May I ask, has anyone ever requested a copy?”

 

“Let me see. We last sent out a copy to a Mr. S. Holmes,” she says, the tapping of a keyboard audible through the headset, “two days ago, that was. We can place a ban and removal in effect from today if you'd like – hello?”

 

He hangs up without answering her. Mycroft understands now. Sherlock already knew he'd killed their father, he was testing him, giving him the chance to own up before he was forced to confess.

 

He presses the intercom and informs Anthea to cancel his entire schedule for the rest of the day. To her credit, there's only a split second of confused silence before she says, “Of course, sir. Anything else?”

 

He rings off without bothering to reply, moving to stand and pour himself a drink. He sits behind his desk once more, clutching his drink in one hand, running the other through his hair as he throws it back. His hair is thinning awfully, and receding so quickly it's almost noticeable from day to day. He hasn't been able to look in a mirror for at least five years without being reminded of his father. The increasing resemblance has not gone unnoticed by Sherlock; their father had always been on the slightly chubbier side, and it seems Mycroft has also inherited that particular disposition.

 

He sits for a few more minutes, tapping his fingers against the edge of the glass, before pushing himself to his feet, smoothing down the front of his waistcoat. No point delaying the inevitable, he thinks, as he slowly begins his journey back to 221b Baker Street and his waiting brother.


	13. Chapter 13

His feet thud heavily as he walks up the steps to his brother's flat. He can't hear anybody moving about this time, and a small part of him is hoping Sherlock won't be in. Mycroft reaches the landing and takes a deep breath, catching sight of the back of his brother's head through the open door.

 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft nods as he steps into the living room of 221b. “Nice to see you again so soon.” Sherlock doesn't answer, he's apparently been waiting for him, sitting motionless in an armchair facing across from the window. Mycroft hovers near the door, unsure whether or not he's welcome to sit down.

 

“I saw the coroner's report,” Sherlock says eventually, still staring across at the window.

 

“I know,” Mycroft replies, staring at the back of his brother's head.

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Of course you do. Then you'll know it noted a large amount of benzodiazepines in his system. Barely a footnote in the report, of course, too busy trying to cover up his _suicide_ as a heart attack. Thinking of the shame it would bring on the family.” Sherlock stops talking for a moment, shaking his head at the window before continuing. “Everyone knew anyway, you know. They were all whispering about it at his funeral. It only took me a week to puzzle out and I was _six_. Or at least, I _thought_ I knew what happened. ”

 

“Thought?” Mycroft asks.

 

Sherlock ignores his question. “The coroner was a complete idiot. He missed almost everything of importance, and anything he did notice he didn't pursue further. The photos showed bruising over his mouth. Finger marks. Small hands, like a woman's. Or a child's.” Sherlock's eyes flicker up to meet Mycroft's at this last sentence, and Mycroft's breath catches in his throat. He holds Sherlock's gaze for a few moments, before dropping his eyes to the carpet, knowing the action is as good as an admission of guilt. His brother huffs out a loud breath, somewhere between a gasp and a sigh.

 

“All these years, all these years you let me think ...” Sherlock trails off, his fingers pressing against his lips in a quick rhythm. Mycroft's heart pace quickens, he opens his mouth to make some kind of explanation, but nothing comes to him. He shuts his mouth and stares down at the ground, tapping the tip of his umbrella against his heel.

 

“You made me think it was my fault. That he killed himself because of me.”

  
“That's what you've been thinking?” Mycroft is surprised into speaking.

 

“Of course that's what I've been thinking!” Sherlock shouts. “Nobody would look at me for weeks after, and I couldn't even go near Mummy without her bursting into tears. You made me think it was. All. My. Fault.” Sherlock punctuates each word with a blow of his fist to the armrest of his chair. Mycroft half remembers a confrontation in the weeks before he went to school, an angry young Sherlock accusing Mycroft of hiding something, then asking with a trembling voice if everything was his fault. Mycroft remembers the way his throat had stuck and not being able to answer his brother. Apparently Sherlock had taken his choked silence as confirmation.

 

Sherlock stands up and crosses to the mantelpiece before turning to face his brother. Mycroft doesn't miss the way his eyes linger over the penknife stabbed into the wood.

 

“But it wasn't, was it? It was yours. You killed him,” Sherlock says. It isn't a question. “Why,” he demands, his fists balling up at his sides.

 

A deafening silence stretches out in the space between them. Mycroft is suddenly thankful that they're standing on different sides of the room, the look on Sherlock's face at that moment isn't that of a man in possession of rational thought. He'd really rather not have to explain a black eye, or worse, to his colleagues.

 

“I worry about you, Sherlock.” Mycroft replies softly. The silence is so pure he fancies he can hear the tick of his watch. “I always have.” He can't bring himself to look Sherlock in the eye, preferring instead to stare over his shoulder at the skull on the mantelpiece. He wonders idly who's it was in life, whether it was someone Sherlock once knew. He hopes so. His brother has had so few friends in his life.

 

“You, you _bastard_. ” Sherlock finally spits out, “you sick, _fat_ bastard. This was because you were jealous, wasn't it? You were always his golden boy, and the second he started paying me any attention you just couldn't handle it. You killed your own father out of sheer, petty greed.”

 

“No, Sherlock, that's - ”

 

“That's exactly how it was, don't you dare lie to me! You always treated me like some, some stupid child, Mycroft, and you couldn't bear to see anyone else treat me differently. Wasn't he playing along to your perverted idea of how the family should be run? Christ, you insane little fucker, you're always so desperate to control everything, you probably wanted to marry Mummy as well, didn't you?”

 

“Sherlock, I did it to _protect_ you! ” Mycroft's voice cuts through Sherlock's rant, louder than he intends it to be. Once the words are out, his mind claws desperately at the air, trying to take them back in. He'd even rather Sherlock thought he killed their father because of some twisted Oedipal compulsion, because now, _now_ he was going to have to explain. The thought of having to do so causes his stomach to start churning, and he takes a few deep breaths to calm himself.  Sherlock watches him carefully now, frozen halfway across the room.

 

“Protect me?” Sherlock licks his lips, looking dazed. “ _Protect_ me? Oh my God, Mycroft, you're even more delusional than I thought. What, because you couldn't control every aspect of our relationship you just thought you'd _kill_ him?” Sherlock actually looks shocked, and Mycroft can't quite believe how everything's gone so wrong so quickly, or how little his younger brother seems to think of him. 

 

“Where does it stop, Mycroft?” Sherlock starts pacing back and forth across the living room. “I mean, should I be warning John? Is Mrs. Hudson next on your list?” he throws at Mycroft.

 

“Sherlock, please,” Mycroft closes his eyes, his stomach continuing to roil. The flat door opens suddenly, and both Holmes brothers snap their eyes up to look at the man walking over the threshold.

 

“Sherlock, what the hell is all this shouting – Oh, of course. Hello, Mycroft.” John's frown slides off his face and he shoots Mycroft a weary smile as he throws his keys onto the table. “I got out of the surgery early. Arguing about a case, are we?”

 

Sherlock actually laughs at that, high-pitched, manic and frightening. John blinks and pauses halfway through removing his jacket, taking a startled step back.

 

“Sherlock, you okay...?”

 

“Oh, perfectly, John, perfectly!” Sherlock gabbles with another frenzied giggle. John frowns again and takes a concerned step towards his friend.

 

“Sherlock, perhaps we should continue this conversation in a more, ah, _private_ manner...” Mycroft tails off as Sherlock wheels back around to face him. He swallows the bile that's threatening to rise in his throat as he averts his eyes from Sherlock's, he doesn't know how much longer he can take his little brother looking at him like this, looking at him like Mycroft's committed the ultimate betrayal.

 

“So, it's not about a case then?” John is confused, blinking from one Holmes to the other.

 

“Not as such,” Sherlock says. “It turns out that Mycroft here,” he gestures wildly in Mycroft's direction, completely ignoring Mycroft's warning noise, “took it upon himself to _kill_ our father. ”

 

There's a stunned silence in the flat as John processes what he's just heard.

 

“What?” John eventually says in a bemused tone, “Your father? I thought he died when you were young, Sherlock?”

 

“Yes, he did. I was six years old, in fact, which puts Mycroft over here at _thirteen_.”

 

Mycroft can't listen to any more of this. “ _Sherlock,_ ” he grits out. “Don't talk about what you don't understand.” He draws himself up to his full height and nods towards his brother's flatmate, “Dr. Watson, if you'll excuse us, please.”

 

John doesn't move, however, and Sherlock snorts in derision, “Don't understand? I'm understanding everything perfectly, Mycroft, for the first time in years. Please, enlighten me as to what I'm missing.”

 

Mycroft can almost feel himself crumbling under his brother's harsh glare. He doesn't think he can do this in front of an audience, and he hopes that John Watson has the savoir-faire to excuse himself from the room, but no such luck.

 

“Sherlock, _please_ ,” Mycroft begins to beg. Both men are staring at him now, glaring at him with accusation and shock in their eyes. He doesn't think he can stand it a moment longer, and moves two steps across the room before collapsing onto their sofa. John rushes immediately to his side, “Mycroft, are you feeling all right?” He kneels down beside the sofa and grabs Mycroft's wrist, tilting his chin back with his other hand to look into Mycroft's pupils. Mycroft pushes his hands away as politely as he can, trying to reassure the doctor that he's not in any immediate danger, at least not from his own body. He's not entirely sure that Sherlock won't attack him, however. He debates for a moment about whether it might actually be useful for someone else to be in the room, someone able to calm Sherlock down, but no. This is too painful, too private.

 

“I do apologise Dr. Watson, but I really feel that this matter should be dealt with in private. Within the family.”

 

“Pull the other one, Mycroft,” Sherlock snaps, “You just don't - ”

 

“ _Sherlock_ ,”Mycroft chokes out, cutting him off, and he's embarrassed to hear his voice break in front of so many witnesses, but he has to get it out, the emotion is bubbling up inside his chest for the first time in years, and he can't stand his brother's betrayed and disgusted expression any longer. “I did it, all of it, _everything_ , for you.” He drops his head into his hands and is taken completely by surprise when the first sob rattles through his body. He hasn't cried in nearly thirty years, and now he's weeping like a child in front of his brother and his flatmate. His sobs almost echo in the stunned silence he's created.

 

John rocks back on his heels, clearly embarrassed. “Sherlock,” he begins awkwardly, “maybe I should go ... Mrs. Hudson … I - ”

 

Sherlock whirls round and begins stalking towards Mycroft. “No, John, don't you dare, don't you  _dare_ leave, you better stop this now Mycroft, can't you see he's putting this all on, stop this stupid act, for God's  _sake_ Mycroft, MYCROFT, YOU  _KILLED_ OUR FATHER.”

 

His shouts ring round 221b and echo into silence. Sherlock stands panting in front of Mycroft, looming over him with his fists balled and shaking. When Mycroft finally summons his courage and manages to look up into Sherlock's eyes, he sees tears glittering there and his heart jumps into his throat. The three of them remain in this strained silence for a long moment which seems to stretch on for an eternity, and Mycroft tries to surreptitiously wipe at his eyes. John eventually clears his throat and reaches out a nervous hand towards Sherlock. “Come on, Sherlock, sit down, please. This will go a lot easier if we're all nice and calm.”

 

John's using his doctor voice, Mycroft distantly realises, the kind of voice he'd use when dealing with a dangerous or mad patient. He almost laughs out loud.

 

“I'll make some tea,” John was announcing, having managed to wrestle Sherlock into an armchair. “You two just … take a minute to calm down, okay?” He nods briskly, and turns into the kitchen, no doubt wondering what insane family drama he appears to have stumbled into. Mycroft can hear him clattering about, removing mugs from cupboards and pouring water into the kettle. He chances a glance at Sherlock; his brother is staring out the window of 221b with such a look of empty devastation that Mycroft has to turn his head away quickly, feeling as if he's intruding on an intensely private moment.

 

He uses a long couple of seconds during this lull in activity to try and compose himself. Mycroft takes a few deep, calming breaths, while attempting to clear his mind of any excess thoughts. He has almost managed to pull his emotions back in, and have himself under some semblance of control, when -

 

“Did Mummy know?” Sherlock says it so quietly that Mycroft isn't entirely sure that he's heard correctly.

 

“Pardon?”

 

“Did Mummy know? That you killed him?” Sherlock's knuckles are white where he's gripping the edges of the armchair. He looks as though he's physically restraining himself from launching across the room at Mycroft's throat.

 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft starts, before shaking his head and looking down at his lap. “I don't know,” he softly admits. “I doubt it. Though I don't think she ever quite believe he'd killed himself.”

 

Sherlock's jaw clenches at this, and John appears in the room, clutching three mugs of tea. He hands one to Sherlock, then places one on the table in front of Mycroft. Mycroft looks down at it, thinking that if he put anything in his stomach right now, all that will happen is that he'll just vomit it back up. John takes a seat in the armchair across from Sherlock, holding his own cup of tea by the rim. There's another tense silence, as everyone stares at their tea, not one of them taking a drink. Mycroft tries to decide which approach would be best. Brutal honestly, or vague prevarications? He'd suggest postponing this discussion till they're all a bit calmer, but he thinks Sherlock might actually break his neck if he tries to leave now.

 

“So,” John's voice breaks into his thoughts, as he looks expectantly at Mycroft, “why doesn't someone tell me what this is all about? One at a time,” he warns Sherlock, seeing his flatmate open his mouth with a mad glint in his eye. Sherlock snaps his mouth shut again, furiously glaring at his knees.

 

“Well,” Mycroft begins, with a glance towards John, “I still think that this conversation might be one best held in private.”

 

“Well, I don't,” Sherlock snaps, “It's our flat, and I want him here.” John looks mildly annoyed at being argued over as if he can't speak for himself, but he keeps his mouth shut at the look on Sherlock's face.

 

“You're making it very difficult for me to do this, Sherlock,” Mycroft says nastily. “I'll just tell you everything in front of someone I hardly know, shall I?”

 

“I'm all ears,” Sherlock says smugly, leaning back in his chair. John frowns slightly at his flatmate. Mycroft casts his gaze around the room, searching for something appropriate to fix his eyes on, finally settling somewhat shamefacedly on his knees.

 

“Our father - ” Mycroft stutters to a halt, the memories rising up like bile in the back of his mind as he tries to phrase it as vaguely as he can. “Whatever you may have thought of him, Sherlock, he was not a very nice man.”

 

“Oh, don't give me that,” Sherlock snorts.

 

“Sherlock, you were six years old when … when he died. I was thirteen. I flatter myself that I had a better grasp of the man's character than a young child.”

 

His little brother apparently has nothing to say to this, and contents himself with clenching his jaw and looking away.

 

Mycroft's eyes wander over his umbrella, taking in the details of his knuckles clenching the handle as he decides how best to phrase it. “It wasn't a decision I took lightly, Sherlock. As I say, he was an awful person.”

 

“So awful he deserved to _die_? I highly doubt that, Mycroft,” Sherlock retorts.

 

“Sherlock, I refuse to have this conversation if you won't restrain yourself,” Mycroft says through clenched teeth.

 

“Well, we wouldn't have to have this conversation if you _had_ restrained yourself,” Sherlock shoots back at him.

 

Both brothers attempt to stare each other down, hatred in their eyes. Mycroft backs down first, shaking his head slightly and looking away. He realises suddenly that he's been keeping this secret for over thirty years. And now he has to find some way to explain this to other people?

 

Mycroft smooths a hand over the front of his waistcoat, then reaches forward to take a sip of his tea. He can see Sherlock fidgeting out of the corner of his eye, he's clearly itching to tell Mycroft to hurry up.

 

“How did you do it?” Sherlock blurts out, apparently too curious to keep silent any longer.

 

“Mummy's pills.”

  
“Yes, _obviously_ , but how did you get him to take them?” Sherlock rolls his eyes again.

 

“I crushed a whole bottle and emptied it into his drink when he was out of the room,” Mycroft says quickly and honestly. There's a surprised silence in the room at the speed and ease of his answer, and he sees John raise an eyebrow appraisingly.

 

“How very … calculating,” Sherlock says finally.

 

“Are you going to go to the police?” Mycroft asks, not sure whether he's speaking more to Sherlock or John.

 

Sherlock laughs bitterly. “Right, because it's not as if you'll shut down any investigation immediately, is it?”

 

“If you want me to, I'll comply with an investigation.”

 

“Excuse me?” Sherlock narrows his eyes in surprise and glares across the room at his brother.

 

“You heard me,” Mycroft replies softly.

 

“You'll confess? You'll just give up your entire life and go to prison?” Sherlock waves a hand in disbelief and Mycroft follows the movement with his eyes.

 

“Sorry, but what the fuck is going on?” Both brothers' heads whip around to look at John as he speaks.

 

“Mycroft, we _know_ you, you don't do anything if it doesn't benefit you in some way,” John continues. “If you did k - err … do what Sherlock says you did, then why would you give yourself up?”

 

“I did,” Mycroft says, “kill him, I mean. I killed my father.” It feels oddly liberating to say it out loud.

 

John clears his throat awkwardly. “Right, well then, that's been established. So why would you give yourself up now?”

 

“It's entirely up to Sherlock,” Mycroft says, and he and John both turn their heads to look at Sherlock. He's sitting very still, staring down at his hands clasped over his lap. Mycroft sees John's hand twitch as if he's longing to reach out to his flatmate. Mycroft half expects Sherlock to take out his phone and call Scotland Yard on the spot, but his brother begins to speak quietly instead.

 

“Go on then, amaze us. Why did you kill him?”

 

Mycroft looks back down at his knees, his heart leaping into his throat. He taps a finger against his umbrella, deciding how to start.

 

“Sherlock, you have to understand, you were very young. There were so many things happening in that house that you couldn't possibly have been aware of,” Mycroft says slowly.

 

“Understand _what_?”

 

“I've already told you, Sherlock. Contrary to your beliefs, I don't actually think you're an idiot. Our father was not a nice man. Surely you can ... extrapolate from that,” Mycroft says, unwilling to specify further. Sherlock crosses his arms and scowls at his brother.

 

John shifts in his seat suddenly, and looks sharply at Mycroft. He's catching on, Mycroft thinks, his stomach twisting sharply, and he looks down at his knees again.

 

“Sherlock, I think you should hear what he has to say,” John says slowly, still staring at Mycroft.

 

“Why? It's all just going to be ridiculous - ” Sherlock starts, before John puts out a hand to stop him.

 

“Did he beat your mother? Or you?” John asks shortly.

 

Mycroft shifts slightly in his seat. “Something like that. I wouldn't say he beat me, but he certainly wasn't gentle with his punishments. Or sparing.”

 

John nods his head slowly, glancing from Mycroft to Sherlock. The latter frowns.

 

“I don't remember anything like that,” Sherlock says, though his eyes betray him. They're softly focused on some point halfway across the room, as if his brain is occupied with half-forgotten memories and events coming to light.

 

“Well, you wouldn't, would you. You were very young. And I tried very hard to keep you away from things like that,” Mycroft says, “seeing as Mummy was apparently too busy to look after her own child.” Mycroft tries to bite back the bitterness in his voice, not quite sure he's succeeding.

 

“You were only thirteen, though, why would - ” Sherlock begins before John quietens him with another look. He clears his throat and glances across the room at Mycroft.

 

“Mycroft, your father,” John starts, before rubbing a hand over his jaw and staring at the carpet, as if trying to guess how best to phrase his next question. Mycroft knows exactly what he's about to say the second before he says it, and he feels an icy chill run up his spine.

 

“Did he - ” John breaks off, looking like he very much wishes he didn't have to ask this question. “Did he abuse you?” John asks, very quietly, as if he's not sure he entirely wants to hear the answer.

 

Everyone in the room collectively holds their breath as Mycroft remains silent, unwilling to make any indication either way to confirm or deny what John has said. John and Sherlock both stare at Mycroft, as he tries very hard not to look back at either of them. He moves uncomfortably in his seat, running a finger over his mouth.

 

“As I said,” Mycroft says eventually, his voice quiet and even, “he wasn't a very nice man.”

 

“Oh my God,” John leans back in his armchair, one hand over his mouth, looking distinctly queasy.

 

The silence in the room stretches on, as Mycroft waits, stone-like in his stillness, for Sherlock to laugh or make some refutation, or an accusation of lies. Nobody says anything however, and Mycroft grips his umbrella tightly as he feels his heart start to beat faster and faster as he waits for a reaction.

 

“Oh my God,” Sherlock echoes after a few minutes, “oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.” He bends almost double in his seat, clutching his hands in his hair, and John's focus is switched from Mycroft to his flatmate. Mycroft continues to sit motionless on their sofa, feeling for all the world like he might never move again. He stays, staring at the carpet, and observes as Sherlock's brain is overrun with memories, confirming what he's just been told.

 

“All those times, all those times he was saying goodnight to you. Oh, my god, I could hear you through the walls,” Sherlock gasps out, squeezing his eyes shut as if trying to scourge the memory from his brain. “You would cry, all the time, and I never knew. Why didn't I _see_ , it was right there.”

 

“You were young, you were too young, you didn't know,” Mycroft repeats softly, wanting to put his arm around Sherlock and smooth back his hair like he would do when they were children. John glances across the room at him, and Mycroft has to look away; he doesn't think he can stand the pity and horror gleaming evidently in his eyes. The two men sit, staring in opposite directions, listening as Sherlock's breathing gradually slows down to a normal rate.

 

“What changed?” John asks finally. “I mean, why do it then? Did you just … snap or something?”

 

“I got too old for him,” Mycroft says simply, still staring at the carpet. “I was leaving for school and Mummy was so absent by then, and Sherlock was so young, I couldn't just _leave_ \- ” he breaks off, overcome with memories.

 

“I remember. He kept paying more attention to me, saying it should be secret,” Sherlock mumbles.

 

“He was … _starting_ on you, the same way he started on me,” Mycroft says, “I couldn't just leave you alone in that house with him.”

 

“What age were you?” Sherlock asks suddenly, staring across the room at his brother, his eyes distraught.

 

Mycroft blinks in surprise for a moment before answering. “I was six when it began. I was ten when he first raped me.” The words come out more easily than he imagined, and he wonders for a moment if he might have benefited from telling someone about this earlier. He's never even phrased it like that before in his head, and it almost feels like he's talking about this happening to someone else. He expects he could probably name the exact dates if he thinks about it hard enough.

 

One of John's hands twitches at the word, and Sherlock's eyes close, almost automatically, as he scrunches up his face in distress. John huffs out a long sigh, “God, Mycroft, that's - ”. He shakes his head, “I'm so sorry.” Mycroft inclines his head towards him in acknowledgement, not sure how to respond.

 

“And you've never told anyone? Like, I don't know, a therapist or someone?” John says in a concerned tone of voice. Mycroft shakes his head.

 

“Not even your … partners?”

 

Mycroft gives a wry smile. “While flattering, Dr. Watson, I think you're greatly overestimating the number of people who want to, ah, _partner_ me. It's hardly a challenge for me to avoid unwanted attention.”

 

John's mouth twists for a moment in a brief parody of amusement, before falling back into the horrified grimace he's been wearing for the past few minutes. Mycroft's own smile slides off his face in return.

 

“I'm sorry, Sherlock. For all this,” he says, turning his attention back to his brother. He feels a deep urge to explain himself further, Sherlock couldn't possibly understand what it was like, neither of them could possibly understand what it was like. “I couldn't just sit by and watch him do to you what he did to me.” Sherlock doesn't respond, looking like he's still trying to wrap his head around what he's just been told. His eyes are darting back and forth across the carpet.

 

“I still don't understand,” he says after a while, “You did it to ... protect me?”

 

“Everything I've ever done, Sherlock, it's all been for you,” Mycroft says quietly. They've never spoken this frankly and honestly before, and Mycroft finds he can't quite meet Sherlock's eyes. He blinks down at his shoes awkwardly. When he looks back up again, he sees John making wide eyes at Sherlock and inclining his head towards Mycroft. Sherlock frowns back at him for a moment, and John looks as if he's barely suppressing the urge to roll his eyes.

 

Sherlock stands up suddenly, then crosses the room in three quick strides and drops down onto the sofa next to Mycroft. The two brothers look at each other for a long moment, both appearing faintly surprised at Sherlock's actions. Mycroft tries to remember the last time they were voluntarily this physically close to one another; he suspects it would have been during a fight rather than a loving occasion. Sherlock's eyes flicker back to John for a moment, then he returns his gaze to Mycroft's face and offers a weak but genuine smile. Mycroft doesn't know how to respond, settling instead for sitting up straighter and placing both hands flat on his knees, his heart clenching painfully.

 

Sherlock reaches out a hesitant arm and pats Mycroft awkwardly on the shoulder. Mycroft suddenly wants to laugh, but instead twists round and drops his head forward into the crook of his brother's neck and begins to cry. He can feel Sherlock stiffening and presumably staring with wide, terrified eyes at John, but he doesn't care. He's feeling too overwhelmed by the relief and terror that comes with someone else finally knowing. He can feel Sherlock's hands clumsily placed on his back, and takes a moment to feel slightly embarrassed at the way his own hands are clutching at Sherlock's jacket. When he looks up again a few minutes later, John has tactfully removed himself from the room, and Mycroft feels a rush of gratitude. He starts to pull away, when Sherlock suddenly wraps his arms more closely around him and pulls him back into a hug. Mycroft can almost feel Sherlock's heart beating through his chest, and he tightens his arms around his brother.

 

“I'm sorry, Sherlock,” Mycroft gasps out, his voice muffled in the fabric of his brother's shirt.

  
“No, I - ” Sherlock stops, one of his hands slowly rubbing up and down at Mycroft's shoulder blade.

 

They stay like that for a while longer, hugging awkwardly but sincerely on the sofa of 221b, until Sherlock pulls away, both brothers trying to hide it from the other as they wipe at their eyes. They take it in turns to glance at each other, abashed, before looking away again, neither particularly sure of what to say next.

 

“I won't go to the police,” Sherlock continues eventually. His voice sounds thick with tears and he clears his throat. Mycroft nods slowly, grateful and touched.

 

“I won't tell anyone,” Sherlock says with a small smile, “I promise.”

 

 

~

 

 

End

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the change in the number of chapters, I couldn't find a way to split up this last section that made sense, so the last few chapters have been consolidated into this one.  
> I hope you like the ending, I'm sorry it gets a bit fluffy but I was in the mood for some nice brotherly hugs after all that angst.  
> Thank you so, so much to all the people who left lovely comments, I would've replied to them all individually but I came over all awkward and didn't know what to say :)

**Author's Note:**

> Finally managed to post something in my brand new AO3 account!
> 
> This is my first work in this fandom, it was inspired by a prompt I saw ages ago complaining about how it's always Sherlock that ff writers make a victim of abuse. So here, it's Mycroft's turn. 
> 
> I've tagged the hell out of it in place of trigger warnings, please tell me if I've missed anything.
> 
> Un-betaed, because I am friendless. Feel free to point out any mistakes in the comments. Concrit is very welcome :)


End file.
